1950
Stowe, VT
Maria kicked the bedcovers away from her legs and swung out of bed, ready to go fetch the crying Eleanor for her nighttime feeding, but it seemed that her husband was already awake, sitting in the dark corner of their room in a large armchair, and he said, "No, let me get her," and he rose to do so, stuffing his feet into a pair of slippers on his way out the door.
Maria grabbed her dressing gown and turned on her bedside lamp, shivering in the chilly early morning air that was their bedroom. The nursery was much warmer, they had made sure of that, but Maria was quite certain that her husband was not sitting wide awake in the dark on this chilly February morning for no reason, and thumbing through the pocket calendar they kept at their bedside she remembered the date amidst the fog in her brain, and Maria knew immediately what was amiss.
Georg shuffled back into the bedroom several minutes later, youngest daughter held snugly to his chest, and went to recline on the bed amongst the pillows Maria had propped up for them. He handed the whimpering child to her when he saw that she was prepared to take her, settling back to watch his daughter nurse.
Once the child had latched on and was suckling comfortably, Maria turned her attention to her husband. "You're brooding," she said.
His eyes shifted to hers for a moment, and he took in her kind, if tired, expression, and knew this was no reprimand, but he returned his gaze to his daughter with a slight shrug.
Reaching out, Maria took the hand resting between them and squeezed it reassuringly. "This too will pass," she promised, then fell silent, electing to follow Georg's lead.
"Some years are harder than others," he murmured as Maria shifted Eleanor to her other breast some quarter hour later. "I wish I knew why. I wish I knew so I could prepare for it."
"You know I have never minded," Maria said gently.
"Yes," Georg agreed, "and for that I love you more every day. But some years, the anniversary of her death passes quietly, as though I've simply lost a dear friend… and others, it's as if my world has been torn away all over again."
Maria looked down at the baby suckling contentedly in the crook of one arm and wondered if she should share the observations she had made through the years. Grief was not something one could anticipate or box up, she knew, but it might help him to put a handle on it and understand what he was feeling just a bit better.
"If you would rather not, I understand completely," Maria said, "but I have noticed some things, my love, over twelve years as your wife."
Grasping at her words, Georg looked at his wife and said with a raspy voice, "Please do. Anything to help me understand this even the smallest bit."
"I've noticed you struggle more when the children do," Maria said. "Their bad year becomes your bad year, especially if one is taking it particularly hard. And you certainly have had bad years when Rosemary and Johannes were small also, close to the age Gretl was."
Georg returned his gaze to Eleanor, pensive. It seemed Maria had worked out a fairly consistent pattern for when he would be at his worst… and she always knew best how to help. How, he did not know. If he were in the same situation, he felt he would be utterly helpless, with no idea of the proper thing to do or say. Maria, though, always seemed to know when it was better to stay quiet, or better to distract him, and even better still, as she was now, to provide some perspective that he hadn't truly considered before.
There was one thing she never offered him, however, and one thing he never asked of her on this day. It had been an unspoken agreement between them from the first anniversary of Agathe's death that passed in their time as a married couple. Somehow, something about lovemaking on this day seemed entirely too crass to them both, and words were not needed.
Instead, Maria usually endeavoured to see that it was a day of remembrance. Every year it manifested itself differently, but regardless, she was adamant. With Georg, she particularly insisted that he say his late wife's name aloud, perhaps share something, a story or happy memory.
"I remember when Louisa was born," Georg said, breaking the silence. "Friedrich was just over a year old and had been recently weaned, but he still cried like the world was ending upon learning that his mother was feeding a baby that was not he."
Maria gave a slight laugh, looking to her husband and waiting expectantly.
"Agathe was exhausted; Louisa's birth was very difficult. And yet she could not bear to see her little boy crying. She insisted that I hand him off to her and soon had a child cradled in each arm, crooning to them both. He calmed, Louisa had fallen asleep, and she looked up at me with a face so full of happiness that I thought my heart might melt right then."
"What was she singing?" Maria asked, intent on pulling the fine details out of her husband.
"Nacht und Träume," Georg said.
"I see…"
Maria often sang Lieder to her children; Schubert's were her favourite, and her husband had always loved this particular one.
Shifting Eleanor around in her arms, Maria settled the child on her chest and wrapped an arm around Georg's shoulders, holding him close. He leaned his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes.
"Rest, love," Maria murmured. "Dawn will soon arrive."
"Sing it for me?"
And so she did, placing all the love and pain and longing and hope of the song into her voice, allowing it to be the balm that she could never hope to be on this day.
Heil'ge Nacht, du sinkest nieder;
Nieder wallen auch die Träume
Wie dein Mondlicht durch die Räume,
Durch der Menschen stille Brust.
Die belauschen sie mit Lust;
Rufen, wenn der Tag erwacht:
Kehre wieder, heil'ge Nacht!
Holde Träume, kehret wieder!
Holy night, you sink low;
As the dreams also flow
Like your moonlight through the rooms,
Through the people's still breast.
They listen with desire;
They call when the day awakens:
Return again, holy night!
Lovely dreams, return again!
Nacht und Träume (1825), Franz Schubert (composer) & Matthäus von Collin (lyricist)